


Abyssal

by sciencefictioness



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Fratricide, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Patricide, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, Trans Hanzo Shimada, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, drug overdose, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Hanzo has been waiting for this, the way a condemned man waits for the gallows; with dread, and inevitability.  There might have been a time when he looked forward to it, once, when he was very young.  When dragons seemed like a gift instead of a burden.Hanzo wasn’t young for long; Sojiro saw to that.  Took that from him, the way he takes everything else.  The way he carves out anything that isn’t made in his image to leave Hanzo hollow.    There’s no more wide-eyed anticipation at the thought of dragons.Now there is fear, and the promise of pain.Now there is Hanzo kneeling on the floor of the temple, Sojiro looking down at him with eyes that glow crimson in the dark,they’ll kill you if you let them, Hanzo.  You have to prove you’re worthy.You’re a Shimada.  Don’t forget.He has tried to forget, and failed a thousand times.  This won’t be any different.
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 10
Kudos: 92





	Abyssal

**Author's Note:**

> This is the deadest dove I have ever written, please mind the tags my friends, this is not an easy read. Written for Shimadacest week, day one, prompt 'Black'. Enjoy!

Hanzo has been waiting for this, the way a condemned man waits for the gallows; with dread, and inevitability. There might have been a time when he looked forward to it, once, when he was very young. When dragons seemed like a gift instead of a burden. 

Hanzo wasn’t young for long; Sojiro saw to that. Took that from him, the way he takes everything else. The way he carves out anything that isn’t made in his image to leave Hanzo hollow. There’s no more wide-eyed anticipation at the thought of dragons.

Now there is fear, and the promise of pain.

Now there is Hanzo kneeling on the floor of the temple, Sojiro looking down at him with eyes that glow crimson in the dark,  _ they’ll kill you if you let them, Hanzo. You have to prove you’re worthy.  _

_ You’re a Shimada. Don’t forget. _

He has tried to forget, and failed a thousand times. This won’t be any different.

He showers, scrubbing his skin raw and then soaking in the waters of the onsen.

Then he is bathed again, ritually. Smoke from the incense is thick in the air, the room filled with steam. It is Sojiro who washes him, gentler than Hanzo would like as the elders watch. He looks at the ceiling.

He closes his eyes.

He kneels in the temple again in nothing but a fundoshi, the clan gathered at the edges of the room; crowding the hallways, looking down from upstairs. Genji is behind him, also on his knees. It will be him in Hanzo’s place in a few years, when he’s ready for a dragon. Sojiro wants him to watch, to learn what to expect. 

It isn’t the first time. 

Hanzo wonders if it will be the most painful.

Sojiro lifts a bowl full of herbs to his face, a piece of coal burning bright red on top of them, until Hanzo is forced to breathe the smoke. He pulls it into his lungs, feels his eyelids go heavy. The urge to cough is overwhelming, but Hanzo resists; he lists to the side and catches himself on one palm, lips parting as he tries to take in air.

Sojiro is praying, words spoken quietly,  _ dragons take this offering.  _ His vision shivers in shades of brilliant blue and impossible black.

Hanzo is in the temple.

Hanzo is in the abyss. 

All he can see are shadows. All he can hear are whispers. He is not in his body.

His body is miles away. 

Fire roars around him, indigo and impossible, and Hanzo flinches from it. There is a presence in the dark; more than one of them. Pairs of eyes glow green and blue and crimson. Simmering orange. Ethereal white. He can feel them looming just outside the flames.

Can feel how he is nothing to them, unless they decide otherwise. How small he is at their feet.

It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before. 

Hanzo has always been nothing.

_ Why are you here?  _ He hears the question in his mind more than his ears, a dozen guttural voices speaking in tandem.  _ You don’t seek power. _

Hanzo shakes his head. He’s here because he has no choice, and because it is expected of him. There isn’t anything for Hanzo to do but obey. Hanzo doesn’t want power.

Hanzo wants peace. 

He feels them press closer, eyes boring into him.

_ Let us see, then, if you can contain us. _

Then they’re spilling into him, burning him alive. His body is a memory, something far away that only feels like his own in snatches. The familiarity is there again; being a stranger in himself is so often a blessing. Even from so far away, Hanzo knows he’s seizing. Knows there’s blood running from his nose, and his eyes, and his mouth. Pouring from his ears. 

Dying, Hanzo thinks.

He’s dying, now. It would be easy. All he has to do is let them take him, and then nothing will hurt anymore. Nothing will ache, nothing will stain. There will be emptiness, and then there will be nothing.

Hanzo has always been nothing.

Then there is Genji, screaming from the surface of the ocean of agony that Hanzo is drowning beneath. Genji’s hands on Hanzo’s arms, Hanzo’s face,  _ anija please. _

He thinks of Sojiro. Thinks of the clan. Thinks of Genji.

There’s nothing Hanzo wants more than oblivion, but he can’t leave Genji here alone. He’s already drifted so far from himself that coming back is dizzying. 

_ Oh,  _ he hears vibrating in his thoughts as they’re sifted through, something digging into his memories like claws in sand.  _ Oh,  _ again, but darker this time. Almost angry. Hanzo’s life flickers past like a movie in the distance of his awareness. Hanzo in his bed. Hanzo in the dojo. Hanzo with a bow. With a blade. With a staff.

Hanzo in Sojiro’s room. Hanzo on his knees.

Genji, and Genji, and Genji.

_ Oh, little one,  _ and the energy is quiet now, pouring into him like water to soothe every ache he’s ever felt. It’s spilling into his heart, and his marrow. Over his skin. Into his mouth.

_ We have you. _

There are two of them, settling over everything Hanzo has ever been, twining themselves with him. Tangled together, like he has only ever been tangled with Genji. More than flesh and blood.

All there is. All he needs.

Hanzo wakes gasping on the temple floor, wood smeared with gore all around him, eyes glowing with bright blue light. There is more light over his right shoulder, spreading down his bicep, swirling over his chest; where his dragons have decided to put themselves, their image shimmering ethereal under the skin. There are two of them. Hanzo has never heard of that before, doesn’t know what it means. 

Genji is kneeling over his body, tears streaking down his face, Hanzo’s blood on his hands. 

“Anija,” he says, and Hanzo shakes his head.

He did not leave Genji behind, but he tried, if only for an instant. He will try again, probably. The knowledge is bitter in his mouth.

“Move, Genji.”

Sojiro’s voice is made of steel. Genji looks up at him, something vicious in his gaze, but only for a moment. It passes, as it always does, and Genji backs away. One of the elders approaches, a set of irezumi needles in one hand. Several high ranking lieutenants stand alongside him, lengths of rope held in their palms. It isn’t like a normal tattoo. They tie him down. Sojiro pins his shoulders to the floor. Others hold his feet, press his hips hard against the wood. 

It isn’t the first time.

Being bound to an ancient spirit is brutally painful.

Being bound to two, Hanzo finds, is like dying all over again. Like death.

He’d beg for it if Genji wasn’t there to hear. He holds back the sounds brewing in his throat for as long as he can, needles cutting him open and pouring in power.

Then Hanzo screams, and screams, and screams, and doesn’t stop until he runs out of air.

-

He’s killed for the clan before, dozens of times at least. Sojiro likes to send him when he also needs to send a message. Most of their enemies are handled by foot soldiers— slit throats, or bullets in the head, but sometimes it’s an arrow. Sometimes a shuriken. 

Sometimes it’s Genji or Hanzo in the night, masks over the lower halves of their faces as they creep through the darkness. 

Sometimes it’s Hanzo in the room of some rival clan’s eldest son, watching him sleep away the last moments of his life. Watching his chest rise and fall from where he’s crouched on the floor, dressed all in black with his dragons humming in his ears. Fifteen never sounds young to Hanzo when Sojiro is giving him orders; Hanzo was younger than that when he got his dragons. Younger when he made his first kill for the clan.

It looks young in person. Feels young, when he fires an arrow into the boy’s heart, watches him surge to life for a few more panicked seconds before going still one last time. 

Hanzo comes home with clean hands. A picture of a dead boy. His father’s pride; it’s a sword that cuts both ways. 

Hanzo’s back aches with it. His chest. His heart. His father’s pride presses his thighs apart and tugs at his hair and tells him how well he’s done.

His father’s pride slides in like a knife to gut him.

Shimada castle sits high on a cliffside. Hanzo’s room faces it, the balcony looming over an expanse of nothingness. He climbs onto the guardrail and sits there, feet bare and palms flat on the wood. It’s cold, and he’s dressed in nothing but a robe he wore from the baths, the silk fine and flimsy. His hair is wet, tangling around his face in the wind. 

There’s snow falling slowly around him, sticking to the balcony, melting on his cheeks. Clinging to his eyelashes. Scattered through his hair. The robe has fallen down off one shoulder to show a lurid imprint of Sojiro’s teeth.

All he has to do is lean forward. It would be such a long time before he hit the ground. There would be weightlessness, and then there would be nothing at all. Hanzo wants it, like he’s never wanted anything.

Genji’s arms slide around his waist from behind.

Genji’s forehead presses in between his shoulder blades.

Genji is warm, hands fisting in the silk of Hanzo’s robe, arms tight enough that it’s hard to breathe. Hanzo supposes he’s lying to himself.

He wants nothingness, like he’s only ever wanted Genji.

“Don’t,” he says, but he doesn’t try and pull Hanzo back off the railing. “Please, anija.” Genji is always begging.

Hanzo is always begging.

It doesn’t help either one of them in the end.

He leans back into Genji and closes his eyes, face tipped up to let the snow fall against his skin. He doesn’t make any promises.

He might lie to himself, but they don’t lie to each other anymore. When the cold becomes brutal enough that Genji starts shivering, Hanzo lets himself be pulled back inside. Pulled into bed, where Genji brings their mouths together and kisses him slowly, the doors still open to let shafts of moonlight paint them both in shades of grey. Genji coaxes his thighs apart and presses his face between them, licking into Hanzo as he shudders, fingers buried in Genji’s hair.

Clouds blot out the moon sometimes, snow drifting through the open door. There are only the sounds of Hanzo's whining, Genji’s desperate little groans against him. 

Genji fucks him until they're both sore, his come dripping between Hanzo's thighs, lips swollen from too many kisses. It's all Hanzo is allowed; quiet moments stolen in the dark. 

Without Genji, Hanzo would be dead already.

Before sunrise Genji sneaks back into his room, pressing his mouth to Hanzo's temple first,  _ I love you, anija. _

Hanzo loves him, too.

Then he is gone, and Hanzo is alone.

-

It is a punishment.

It is a reward.

It’s whatever Sojiro decides to call it, hands brushing Hanzo’s hair back from his face, Hanzo’s eyes unfocused as he drifts as far away as he can and stays there until it’s over. His dragons wanted to fight, at first, but they’ve learned there is no fighting things. Hanzo is too weak for that.

Hanzo is too broken.

Now they help Hanzo float out of himself, coil around him in the abyss and hold him as best they can.  _ Just stay with us,  _ they say, and Hanzo does, when he is able. He thinks of Genji’s dragon— Genji did not bleed when he went into the abyss to meet his dragon. Did not shake. Did not seize. 

_ Because he wanted power, and was grateful for the chance to take it. _

Hanzo doesn’t need to wonder why.

Everything Genji wants, he wants for Hanzo’s sake.

Sometimes things slip through the blackness to Hanzo no matter how hard his dragons try. Sojiro’s fingers in his mouth. Sojiro’s palm, slapping him across the face, trying to bring Hanzo back to himself. Sojiro cupping his cheeks in both bands, thumb dragging his bottom lip roughly to one side,  _ you look so much like your mother. _

It cuts through the fog like a blade, and Hanzo is wide awake, and present, and he feels everything.

He doesn’t make a sound, but tears track down his face, lashes wet with them. It’s a long time before Sojiro lets him go.

Genji finds him in the bathtub, drifting so sweetly again, farther than he’s ever been. Hanzo has cut through so many people; it is no different, cutting through himself. He is just skin, just flesh, just bone. There is pain, enough to have Hanzo crying out against his shoulder, trying to muffle the sound. There are his dragons, roaring in his ears, begging Hanzo to stop. 

They are always begging. It is a waste of time.

There is blood on his mother’s tanto until it slips from his fingers to clatter onto the tile. Blood smeared on vivid white ceramic.

Blood in the water until Hanzo’s body is hidden in a haze of red.

There is Genji, then, tugging him out of the warmth and onto the floor,  _ no, no, no, no, no. _

Shaking hands and animal sounds. Genji is sobbing. Genji is screaming,  _ Hanzo, Hanzo please. _

_ It’s okay,  _ Hanzo thinks, but his mouth doesn’t form words.  _ I’m sorry,  _ he thinks. Not sorry enough to stay. His eyes will barely open. He is still far away. 

Hanzo comes back to himself with a gasp, the prick needles in his arms and Genji keening as he rocks him,  _ you can’t do this to me.  _ The bathroom is glowing in the unearthly gold of a half-dozen biotic fields. There are empty bottles of biotic liquid scattered on the floor. Everything is wet— with biotics. Water laced with gore. He’s never been this cold.

His dragons have shifted in his skin, one curling around each forearm— it hurts like nothing he’s ever felt, mostly because they are stitching him back together. He’s not bleeding anymore, but the scars will be deep, and vivid. Everyone will see them.

Sojiro will see them. 

“No,” Hanzo mewls, tucking his face into Genji’s chest, too tired to cry the way he wants. He was so close.

He was so far away.

“I’m sorry,” Genji whispers, still rocking him slowly, face buried in Hanzo’s hair. “I can’t do this without you. Hanzo  _ please. _ Don’t leave me.”

Hanzo closes his eyes and cries like a child. The guilt is there again, the shame that lives in Hanzo.

It’s all Hanzo is, all Sojiro lets him be.

There’s shame, and death, and family.

They are all the same.

-

Sojiro is dead.

Genji is dead.

Hanzo killed them both. There was nothing else he could do. He burns Sojiro to ashes in a blaze of fury, everything blue and frenzied and indecipherable.

Genji is much later, with his sword, the elders whispering in Hanzo’s ears. It is a punishment. It is a reward.

It is whatever the elder’s decide to call it, brushing Hanzo’s hair back from his face. Hanzo’s eyes are unfocused, and he drifts as far away as he can until it is over. Genji is in pieces, eyes falling closed one last time. Hanzo envies him, when he is capable of feeling anything at all.

Hanzo is with them, deep down where it counts.

Then Hanzo breaks, and tears the clan to pieces. He sleeps in hotels and on rooftops and in alleyways. He buries his arrows in the elders. Genji was all he had, all he knew.

Genji is a ghost in the corner of Hanzo’s vision. 

He is dragging himself on severed limbs,  _ anija, please, don’t.  _

Genji is in his bed, jaw torn from his face and tongue lolling down into his chest,  _ Hanzo, I miss you. _

_ Come on, anija, kiss me. _

Genji is in his dreams, fingers pressed into Hanzo’s cunt,  _ don’t leave me all alone.  _ It is Genji speaking. 

It is Hanzo, begging. He only begs in dreams, now.

There is no one listening.

Hanzo cleans up the mess he left behind, and soon all that remains of the clan is pitiful dregs. Sniveling lieutenants, power hungry nobodies. He gets drunk and kills them anyway, seeing double as he lifts his bow, and draws, and fires. Talon comes for him sometimes.

Talon finds itself in pieces, too. Hanzo is pathetic, but he can’t seem to stop.

He’s in some Talon safehouse, bodies strewn all around, so much sake in him that it’s hard to keep himself upright. Hanzo is covered in gore, skin littered in cuts and bruises. His lip is busted. His knuckles bleed. 

He rifles through the pockets of the mercenaries one by one, hoping to find a flask. Whiskey would do, right now. Rum, vodka. Hanzo isn’t picky.

He doesn’t find any more alcohol, but one of the mercenaries has a bottle of alprazolam— little yellow bars in an unmarked beige container. His fingers leave bloody prints on the plastic.

Genji is in the corner of the room, opening his mouth to let blood pour down his chin, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. One of his severed hands is on the floor, crawling towards Hanzo on fingers with the nails torn off, trailing muscle behind it.

Hanzo is glad he’s there.

He can’t do this alone.

Hanzo pops open the lid on the pill bottle and pours a handful in his mouth, swallowing them with the last of his sake. They burn on the way down, sticking in his throat, bitter on his tongue. He isn’t sure if it’s enough.

Genji is at Hanzo’s feet looking up at him, clutching weakly at his ankle, organs spilling from his stomach.

Hanzo staggers into the bathroom and turns on the faucet, red smeared on the knobs. It takes a while— a mouthful of pills, then water cupped in his palm, pink with someone’s blood as it washes off his skin. His own, someone else’s. Hanzo isn’t sure.

He drinks it anyway. It doesn’t matter. 

There are broken shards of mirror all over the floor, grinding under his feet. Hanzo climbs into the bathtub and lays down. The ceramic is cool against his face. His dragons are quiet.

They’re tired, too. Genji is nowhere. He can’t hear them.

The pills are heavy in his stomach already. He’ll be sick, probably, but if he keeps enough of it down it should work all the same. He’s floating already.

Hanzo goes so far away, but he can’t escape himself. Hanzo is in the abyss.

Hanzo is in a shitty hotel bathroom with sake on his clothes.

Genji is shaking him, hand holding his chin,  _ Hanzo you piece of shit. _

Genji has a metal jaw and red, red eyes. Just like Sojiro’s, looking at Hanzo with just as much disdain. Hanzo blinks up at him drowsily, then retches onto the floor.

_ Goddamn it. Stupid motherfucker. _

Genji’s voice is laced with something robotic. Genji slaps him in the face. Genji’s arms are made of steel when he picks Hanzo up. Someone else is talking, something low and drawling.

_ Shut the fuck up,  _ Genji says. Vicious. Venomous. Hanzo tries to cling to him, but there is nothing to hold onto.

_ I love you,  _ Hanzo slurs, fingers tracing over cold metal and warm skin.  _ I’m sorry, Genji. _

_ You shut the fuck up, too,  _ Genji says, carrying Hanzo away. There is an angel. There is light, and sound, and warmth.

There is Genji brushing his hair gently out of his eyes in the dark,  _ damn it, Hanzo. _

_ You’re a fucking mess. _

He has always been one. Hanzo doesn’t know why Genji is surprised.

There is Genji’s mouth on his cheek. There is something wet on his face.

There is nothingness. It is brief.

Hanzo wakes up on the floor of a Shambali temple, easily a hundred miles away from where he’d been. Someone has bathed him, and dressed him in unfamiliar clothes. Black sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt. They don’t fit quite like they should.

They fit like they are Genji’s.

His bow is beside him, along with his bloodstained gi. There’s a blanket thrown over him, and an omnic hovering nearby. Genji is gone from the edges of his vision.

Hanzo is grateful for it. His head pounds, and his stomach turns, bile sharp in his mouth.

“Are you back with us, my friend?”

Hanzo doesn’t want to be, but he nods his head.

-

Genji is alive.

Genji is made of scars and steel and cybernetics.

Even with synthetic lungs and pieced together from metal, Genji is less broken than him. They fight in the temple, as they’ve fought a thousand times. 

Hanzo follows him to Overwatch. 

Genji is still alive, and Hanzo doesn’t know how to exist without him. Doesn’t know how to exist alongside him. It’s strange at first, tense between them. It wasn’t only Genji’s ghost in Japan in all those years ago. Wasn’t only Hanzo’s hallucinations. Genji was there, saving him again.

Hanzo expects that anger from him and finds softness instead. Finds forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. Finds Genji reaching, as he’s always been. 

He’s spent so long on his knees that he doesn’t know how to reach back.

Genji comes to him at night, sometimes. Pulls off his prosthetic legs and crawls into bed. Hanzo tries to shrug off his touch— not because he doesn’t want it, but because he isn’t worthy. 

_ Shh,  _ Genji says, tugging Hanzo against him.  _ Let me have this,  _ he says, and Hanzo goes still. Genji can have anything he wants from Hanzo. He’s taken so much from him.

He can’t give it back.

More and more Genji finds him in the dark, hands sifting through Hanzo’s hair. He buries his face in it, and breathes.

Sometimes, Hanzo shakes.

They send them out on missions together, mostly because Hanzo will go with Genji whether they want him to or not. Fighting beside him is all muscle memory, coming back to Hanzo effortlessly. He puts arrows in mercenaries, and gang members, and null sector omnics. He keeps Genji safe.

He puts himself in danger when it isn’t necessary. Hanzo feels himself doing it, but it is just one more thing that he can’t seem to stop. Again, and again. He runs headlong into enemies, doesn’t wait for backup. Doesn’t wait for Genji. He can do this on his own.

Or he can’t, he thinks, bleeding from his stomach. He’s in an alley pinned down by their enemies, but that’s okay. The others will have gotten the tech they were after. Genji will have time to get away. He has an arm curled around his stomach, a bloody palm pressed against faded bricks. The world rocks under his feet, all of it gone hazy. Hanzo’s dragons rumble in his blood,  _ here, like this? _

_ After everything? _

_ Oh, little one. _

Hanzo is sorry.

Hanzo is always sorry.

He doesn’t even beg in dreams, anymore. A Talon squad surges into the mouth of the alley, guns up with Hanzo in their sights. He closes his eyes. 

It won’t be so bad. At least Genji isn’t there to see.

There’s metal on metal, and the boom of rockets, and Hanzo opens his eyes to find Genji there in front of him. His sword is glowing red, the way it does when he deflects too many bullets. His mask is on but Hanzo still feels him glaring. 

The mercenaries are all down. He can hear Jack in the distance,  _ get him out of here, they have reinforcements coming! _

Genji scoops Hanzo and runs. The last time he carried him this way Hanzo was dying, and here he is doing it again.

_ What the fuck is wrong with you,  _ Genji hisses through his faceplate without looking at Hanzo. He doesn’t know if Genji wants an answer.

Doesn’t know where to even start.

They get everyone on the transport safely. Get everyone back to base. Hanzo gets put in the med-bay, bathed in the glow of biotics, an IV trickling them into his veins. Genji sits in the chair beside his bed, hands on his thighs and looking at the floor.

_ Is it ever going to stop,  _ Genji asks. His faceplate is sitting on a table beside him. He’s the most beautiful thing Hanzo has ever seen, even scarred and bound in steel. A metal jaw. A robotic lilt in his voice.

He doesn’t mean to be this way. 

He doesn’t know how to do anything else.

_ I’m so fucking tired, Hanzo.  _

Hanzo is tired, too.

_ You’re so close, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re still so far away. You’re still in Hanamura, even now. I fucking miss you every day. _

Genji gets up and leaves him there. Hanzo is in the med-bay for days. Genji doesn’t come back to see him again.

Hanzo is alone.

-

Hanzo gets worse.

Hanzo gets better. It takes weeks, then months. Everything hurts.

Hanzo stops trailing Genji around like a stray dog and starts trying to find his feet. He looks in the mirror one day, half-drunk and exhausted, and sees his mother looking back at him. 

He leaves the base in the middle of the night and gets a new tattoo, pierces his lip and the bridge of his nose, gets his hair shaved into an undercut. Hanzo buys new clothes— he doesn’t think they look good, necessarily.

They do look  _ different,  _ though, and that’s what counts. When he shows back up and walks through the common room, Genji sees him first. He stops talking to Jesse mid-sentence, eyes flashing green and lips parting. There’s heat in his gaze, mingled with confusion.

For a moment, Hanzo thinks he’s going to cross the room and kiss him. 

The conversation trickles to a halt all around him. Hanzo looks down and keeps walking, ignoring Hana’s enthusiastic commentary. Lúcio’s encouragement. Jesse’s low, drawn-out whistle. He makes his way back to his quarters and waits. It doesn’t take long.

Genji comes in with his eyes wide, brows raised as he closes the distance between them.

“Hanzo, holy shit.”

Genji lifts a hand to Hanzo’s hair, runs his fingers over it where it’s been shaved close. He’s looking at his nose, at his clothes, at his mouth. 

“It’s stupid,” Hanzo says, staring at the floor. He’s almost forty, well past the age for something like this to be anything but ridiculous.

“It’s not,” Genji replies, palm on Hanzo’s jaw, thumb nudging delicately at the ring in his lip. Hanzo raises his eyes to meet Genji’s.

“I wanted something different. I… want things to be different.”

He wants Genji to look at him and see something besides pain. Genji smiles, and takes a step closer.

“Not too much different, I hope.”

Hanzo flushes. Shakes his head. Genji leans in and kisses him, once, gently.

When he tries to pull back Hanzo doesn’t let him.

He hasn’t even seen Hanzo’s new tattoo.

-

Genji moves his things into Hanzo’s room. They sleep together every night, Genji holding him close, tangled up like they always used to be. He tugs Hanzo’s clothes off and eases his thighs apart. Presses his face between them. Eats Hanzo out until he cries.

Genji fucks him until they’re both sore, his come dripping between Hanzo’s legs. Hanzo will let him keep going as long as he likes. 

Hanzo will give him anything— he doesn’t know how to stop.

They’re closer than they should be, even when there are others around to see. Hanzo avoids their gazes.

Genji is shameless. Hanzo doesn’t mind.

He wakes Hanzo up with a mouth on his neck, Genji’s fingers slipping wet into Hanzo’s cunt,  _ please, anija, I want you.  _

He has always been nothing, but now there is Genji.

Hanzo drops his knees wide, and lets Genji have him.

-

They’re on a mission together.

They’re always on a mission together.

It isn’t Talon, this time, but some of McCree’s old friends. A handful of Deadlocks in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’re all dead or running now, but not before putting a few bullets in some of them. 

Not before putting one in Hanzo’s chest, and stomach, and thigh. He’s bleeding a lot, even for a gunshot wound. He presses trembling fingers to the wound in his abdomen, staring at them when they come back soaked in gore.

Genji lands next to him in a crouch, pulling his hands away to see where Hanzo’s been hit. He’s dizzy. The world is out of focus. Hanzo has done this enough times to recognize when he’s dying.

“I don’t want to,” Hanzo murmurs, bewildered. He is underwater. 

The abyss is close.

“Don’t want to what,” Genji asks, tying a tourniquet too tight around his thigh, red splashed on his faceplate. Genji’s hands don’t falter.

Genji has always been there, even when Hanzo didn’t deserve him.

“I don’t want to die.”

There’s fear in his voice. It wavers. 

Genji laughs.

_ “Now  _ you don’t want to die?” His voice is unsteady, too. Breathy and shaking. “Shut the fuck up, Hanzo. You’re not going anywhere. You fucking asshole.”

He does, though. Dies. Angela brings him back. Once. Twice. Hanzo drifts again, even though he doesn’t want to go. Genji is begging, again.

It’s been such a long time.

Hanzo wakes up in the med-bay with Genji in his bed. Tangled together. All he needs. There are machines beeping. He can hear Angela’s footsteps moving closer from down the hall. 

He buries his face in Genji’s hair and pulls him closer. Genji sighs in his sleep.

Hanzo’s dragons purr.

He closes his eyes, and it is good to be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things!


End file.
